Part 8

My little maid, my little maid, You grow too old, I am afraid, The questions trembling on your tongue Tell me you are no longer young, How many hours are in the year? How high up is the heaven clear? And do the ships, so big and grand Go sailing to some other land?

Stay in the baby-world so new, Its flowers are drowning in the dew, Its paths are soft to tender feet, Stay in the baby-world, my sweet!

My little maid, my little maid, You grow too old, I am afraid, The schoolhouse holds your steady gaze, Your mind is in a wondrous maze, So much to learn, so much to see, You’re just as busy as can be, My nursery rhymes have all been told, Red Riding-Hood will soon be old.

Stay in the baby-world so new, Its flowers are drowning in the dew, Its paths are soft to tender feet, Stay in the baby-world my sweet!

My little maid, my little maid, You grow too old, I am afraid, Your tender face it seems to me, Is filled full of expectancy. A spirit questioning, and wise Looks out at me from your dark eyes, Till I am fain to hold you fast And hide you while old Time goes past.

Stay in the baby-world so new, Its flowers are drowning in the dew, Its paths are soft to tender feet, Stay in the baby-world my sweet!

My little maid, my little maid, You grow too old, I am afraid, Five years! it seems a little while Since you came here with slow sweet smile On your wee mouth, your pretty chin, And each cheek with a dimple in, Your soft hands clutching at the air, Your birthright all our love and care.

Stay in the baby-world so new, Its flowers are drowning in the dew, Its paths are soft to tender feet, Stay in the baby-world my sweet.

Heather White

Sprig o’ heather, you were born Where the mountains greet the morn, Just within the shadow dim Of the grey rocks harsh and grim, Just beside the torrent’s brim, You were born; I, a naturalist, can trace In thy sweet sky-lifted face, Signs and tokens of the place Clear as morn.

Breath that comes from ’mong the firs, When the wet-faced sea-wind stirs In its flight, Night of gloom, and day of gold, Hill and vale, white flocks in fold, Ah, to-night, Dim my eyes grow as they see All thy dear heart shows to me, Blossom from across the sea, Heather White!

Grannie’s Message to Jack

You’re sending Jack a letter, dear-- To-day he’s twenty-one, And plainly I can read your pride And joy in the dear son. He wants a message--Ah, if I Could take his hand in mine Instead of putting all my love In one poor little line.

But write out clear and let it read _To Jack, away from home, Old Grannie says, get ready, For the Kingdom come._

You’re smiling daughter as you write, But Jack won’t smile that way, His mind will just go flying back To thoughts of yesterday; Before he got so big and strong, And oh, so very nice, When he was Grannie’s white-haired boy Just dreaming of the skies.

So write out clear, and let it read, _To Jack, away from home, Old Grannie, says get ready For the Kingdom come._

Somehow the letters that we get Don’t seem to come from him, And often when I’ve read them through My poor old eyes are dim, He talks too much of worldly things-- My Jack was never proud, Of wealth and fame, and power to win, And going with the crowd.

So write out clear, and let it read, _To Jack, away from home, Old Grannie says, get ready For the Kingdom come._

You think his birthday calls for more Than one poor little line, Nay, there are those who love him less To make him wishes fine; My words go from a faithful heart, They’re true, and they are warm, There’s loving wisdom in them, too, To keep my boy from home.

So write out clear, and let it read, _To Jack, away from home, Old Grannie says, get ready For the Kingdom come._

I’d like to see him as he reads, His blue eyes brimming o’er, And good thoughts rising white and strong To be forgot no more; Heaven will be nearer to his heart Than it has been for years, For he will read in these few words My love, my hope, my prayers.

So write it clear, and let it read, _To Jack, away from home, Old Grannie says, get ready For the Kingdom come._

The Ever and Ever so Long Ago

O, life has its seasons joyous and drear, Its summer’s bloom, and its frost and snow, But the fairest of all, I tell you, dear, Was the sweet old spring of the long ago-- The ever and ever so long ago!

When we walked together among the flowers, When the world with beauty was all aglow, O, the rain and dew! O, the shine and showers Of the sweet old spring of the long ago, The ever and ever so long ago!

A hunger for all of the past delight Is stirred by the winds that softly blow, O, spare but a thought, dear, from heaven to-night For the sweet old spring of the long ago, The ever and ever so long ago!

The Height

The climbing step by step up pathways steep Had wearied me upon that summer day, Till, by-and-by, a strong hand seemed to sweep All save the joyousness of life away, The heavens stretched their azure folds above-- I stood, my feet upon the dizzy height I had not thought to reach save in my dreams; The whirring of an eagle’s wings in flight Towards rarer winds, and still more dazzling gleams Of the red sun, was every sound abroad. Full sweet the silence of the solemn place Where nature, radiant, drew so close to God, You saw His very kiss upon her face, And heard the mystic murmur of His love.

Her Portrait

A little child, she stood that far-off day, When Love, the master-painter, took the brush And on the wall of mem’ry dull and grey Traced tender eyes, wide brow, and changing blush, The gladness and the youth, the bending head All covered over with its curls of gold, The dimpled arms, the two hands filled with bread To feed the little sparrows brown and bold That flutter to her feet. It hangs there still, Just as ’twas painted on that far-off day, Nor faded is the blush upon the cheek, The sweet lips hold their smiling and can thrill, And still the eyes--so tender, and so meek-- Light up the walls of mem’ry dull and gray.

God Loveth Us

God loveth us! in pain or bliss, O heart, be true and strong! God loveth us, and knowing this We know life’s sweetest song.

God loveth us! O eyes that find Life’s lesson hard to read, By tears of loss made dim and blind Learn His great love instead.

God loveth us! O hands that grasp At human tenderness, And then in emptiness unclasp, He waits to fill and bless.

God loveth us! O weary feet That find life’s pathway long, His love provides a rest so sweet The hope of it makes strong.

God loveth us! O hearts that ache With striving all in vain, His tender hand is reached to take The bitterness and pain.

God loveth us! O fallen one Creep upward to the light, God’s radiant stars shine on and on, Until the dawn grows bright.

God loveth us! in pain or bliss, O heart be true and strong, God loveth us! and knowing this, We know life’s sweetest song.

An Etching

A harvester throws up the sheaves, And hums a merry old refrain, Some thistles show their prickly leaves Among the swaths of yellow grain.

The briar bushes soft and green Quite hide the zig-gag fence away, And all the space that lies between Is carpeted with new-mown hay.

The heat of noonday presses all To rest and silence, full and deep, And still the cheery robins call To show that they are not asleep.

Shadows

“O sweet white rose, I pray you tell Why in that fragrant heart of thine Where golden sunbeams seldom fell, All grace and gladness seems to dwell, And summer fragrance hold its shrine?”

“Sweet, am I,” west wind, sweet and white, Then leave me in the shadow pray, Here soft dews bathe me all the night, And no harsh sunbeam comes at light, To kiss the great white tears away.”

A Merrie Christmasse Untoe Ye

A Merrie Christmasse untoe ye! The wishe is olde, the sweete refraine Of that song carolled longe agoe, When Love crepte downe o’er hille and plaine Singing, full-toned, to heartes in paine, “Peace ande goodwille!” Lete white flowers growe, A Merrie Christmasse untoe ye!

Marguerite

All light and love, and golden grace, One full glad day, one summer day Goes ever with me on my way, And to no other yields a place.

Do you remember Marguerite, Ah! faithful one, I need not ask, Since to forget is such a task, My strength fails toiling at it, sweet.

We climbed the path among the hills, And laughed to see the wild-birds go All startled, flying to and fro Afraid of great and unknown ills.

The wind laughed with us, and grew warm With breath of leaf, and stalk, and flower, No space of that delicious hour But held a fresh and subtle charm.

Till, by-and-by, we stood and knew Ourselves upon the height alone, For us the blue sky smiled and shone, The great world only held us two.

So fair, so cold--it could not be! Thou wert so proud, my Marguerite, Thou wert so proud, and O, so sweet I scarce could look at all on thee.

Till in me grew a madness born Of the wind blowing from the south, I bent and kissed thee on the mouth, The ripe, red mouth--the bow of scorn.

No scorn was on it then, my sweet, But tenderness beyond compare, Thy white soul laid its secret bare, Thy love was mine--_mine_--Marguerite!

I whispered foolish things and fond, O bliss, for which I vainly yearned! Not, not for me, the truth I learned, Thine hand had signed stern duty’s bond.

It was the end, we did not say The lover’s lingering good-bye, Only the day’s glad soul did die, And earth and heaven alike were grey.

Did I forget? is mine a heart, One apt to yield up all its store? I loved thee ever, more and more Through all the years we dwelt apart One walked with me a little space, To her I gave affection mild, As to a pretty winning child Who sought to cheer me with her grace.

With pretty tasks she filled each day, Walked in my home with gentle pride, Called me a dreamer, oft would chide My thoughts for soaring far away.

Her robes swept softly to her feet, Her hair fell down a golden fleece, Yet, when mine arm embraced Bernice, My soul embraced _thee_, Marguerite.

We cannot change, we cannot pass To other things until we die; Who knows, the old love may not lie Within the grave, beneath the grass?

Perhaps ’twas wrong, but this I know My longing I could never still, For love was stronger than my will, And mem’ry would not let thee go.

I know where one long silky braid Fell down upon thy snowy neck, And how the blushes came to deck, And where the cunning dimples laid.

Each of thy little tricks of speech Hath kept its echo all the while, Thy laughter growing from a smile Which sadness oft would chase and reach.

And now we stand alone again, With naught to keep us far apart; Come to thy home within my heart, And there forget all loss and pain.

Come, with that glow upon thy face We will go back a dozen years, Back past the graves, back through the tears, To that cold day of youth and grace.

And there take up the golden store Of life and love so weighty grown-- I hold thy heart against mine own, And thus will hold forever more.

The Hoar Frost on the Wood

Look through the glistening stubble-fields to where Last night, in sullen and complaining mood, Over the fate that left them grim and bare, The trees in yonder dear old forest stood. “The spring,” they moaned, “Ah, it will be a while Ere she can reach us with her magic wand!” Who was it heard? To-day, mile upon mile,-- There stretches out a white enchanted land, Each tall tree hath a weight of gems that shine-- Mark how the sun can draw its beauties out-- On every soft white thing its kisses fall, Till in the air we see a dazzling line Of sparkling gems--it is a glorious rout Of nature’s children holding Carnival.

Two Creeds

The Priest was earnest and sincere-- He deemed that this stout cavalier, This stranger unto Christ’s dear grace, Who rested with him for a space, Should hear the truth, what saith the creed? “To every man that stands in need.”

Though weary miles of pilgrimage Has tried his strength, yet would he wage, Stout war of argument to-night, With heathen ignorance of right, With faltering tongue he then began To picture to this fellow-man-- In error born, on error nursed, By pride and passion doubly cursed-- The glories of a city fair, To which men climb on narrow stair Of self-denial, prayer and fast, And zeal unflagging to the last.

“Its gates that flash the sunlight back, What touch of splendor do they lack? I see them lift themselves upright-- Of pearl, unblemished, pure and white-- Its streets gleam yellow in the sun, Through fields of green its waters run, And o’er it all no shadow flies, The sun sets not in Paradise.

“From every throat swells forth a song, Not one is mute of that vast throng, Who, through the weeping and the night, Have found their way to Heaven’s delight. No bitterness, no cry of pain, No grieving over mortal strain, No shrinking will, no coward fear, No breaking heart, no scalding tear, In the fair city built above, For this is heaven, and heaven is love.”

The other bowing courteously, “Thanks for this kindness done to me. I doffed my boldness and my pride, And sat here meekly by your side, While you, for a brief moment’s space, Painted the beauty of that place, Where white souls live, now list to me, And bare your head as reverently, While I set forth before your eyes The glories of _my_ Paradise. “A garden hidden quite away, Where stranger footsteps never stray, The yellow sun shines all day long,

The wild-bird sings his choicest song; There at the gate my angel stands To welcome me with out-stretched hands; A lotus-bud gleams in her hair, Her round, soft arms all white and bare, Between her lips warm kisses hide, Love in her eyes that open wide.

A perfume comes up from the beds Of lilies hanging their white heads, The pearls of dew begin to fall, A night-bird to its mate doth call, The changing shadows softly move But never touch the face I love; You know, O Priest, so learned and wise, The sun sets not in Paradise.

You tell of rest that waits the few, That strive with earnest zeal and true To gain it, as the years go past, By toil, and care, and patient fast, O Priest! my heaven gives richer dole, It takes the laggard, worthless soul, And fills it up with rapture sweet, And makes it know itself complete. Rest! never penance won such rest As comes to me when her white breast Is made a pillow for my cheek, When her dark eyes look down and speak; O Love! the world and all its care Lies quite outside this garden fair, You know, O Priest, so learned and wise The sun sets not in Paradise.

You look for heaven after death-- I draw it in with every breath-- I am content, be you the same, If I mistake, be mine the blame, But in one fair sweet odored grove Lies heaven, if heaven means peace and love.”

His Ex-Platonic Friend

I’ve lost a thing of value great, And, woe is me, I’ll now find it The very choicest thing of all, Or sure, you know I wouldn’t mind it.

Some call it friendship--I don’t know. But take their word as is my duty, But if the definition’s true, Then friendship is a thing of beauty.

For mine took on so fair a form It charmed away all care and sadness, It flashed out beams so strong and warm, Away went everything but gladness.

It looked from tender eyes of brown, And spake my greatest fault forgiven, In wondrous sweetness there it shone-- In truest eyes outside of heaven.

I felt it in the hand I clasped, So small, and yet so strong to guide me Through waters deep, or breakers past, Or aught that threatened to betide me.

With ripe red lips it spake to me, O voice, that always soothes and blesses! While I, Philistine, felt to pray That I might silence it with kisses.

I’ve lost all this by my mistake, I walked, you see, not circumspectly, I pressed a claim for love’s sweet sake, And friendship took to flight directly.

And I am left to think with pain How folly caused my loss and sorrow, Had I my friendship back again I’d do the very same to-morrow.

The Grave

O the grave is a quiet place, my dear, So still and so quiet by night and by day, Reached by no sound either joyous or drear, But keeping its silence alway, alway.

O the grave is a restful place, my dear, Unvext by the weightiest loss or gain, All the undone work of the speeding year May beat at its portals in vain, in vain.

O the grave is a tender place, my dear, The Love immortal, the faith, the trust, The grace and the beauty, lie buried there, So pure and so white in a robe of dust.

O the grave is a home-like place, my dear, Where we all do gather when day is done, Where the earth mother folds us close and near, And the latch-string waits for the laggard one.

Settled by Arbitration

The three sat at meat in a country inn, And Patrick’s face wore an elegant grin, For the Scotchman lean, and the Englishman stout Were having a nice little quarrel out. Now, it all begun when five times had gone The glass and bottle to everyone, The Englishman, he had a stubborn jaw And could quote whole pages of English law, While the Scotchman, was as stern and as gray As the rocks of his country far away. The bottle it made him but look more stern, But the other one took a boasting turn, He talked of their big brave ships on the sea, Of their soldiers as brave as brave could be, Of the English beef that no land could beat, Of their puddings and pastries good to eat; And the Scotchman listened to every word And seemed agreeing with all that he heard, Till the squared-jawed fellow by-and-by claimed His country the wittiest ever named; “The Henglish wit, sir, hit shines like the sun” “Aye! the sun in a fog,” the other one, Then the arguments flew so thick and fast-- They’d have come to blows ere the thing was past Had not Patrick, good hearted, blithe and gay, Chanced to travel with them that summer day, “Now sure,” said he, “you know ’tis the fashion To settle disputes by arbitration, Faith, a rale ould shindy’s the thing for me, But the rale ould shindy has ceased to be, Let’s be the powers, and raison a bit, Whist now! and ould Erin will settle it.” Then these two disputants, they both agreed To take his finding in word and deed. “The English wit, sir--let’s take off our hats-- Can’t be seen by folks that are blind as bats, ’Tis none of your common everyday stuff, Nor like that of Ireland, vulgar and bluff, Sure, ’tis something I would only compare To what is well known as precious and rare, Say to the famous philosopher’s stone-- Or elixir of life to ould sages known; No Irishman from the hill or the bog Would say it was like the sun in a fog, That statement, sirs, on the face is untrue For sometimes the fog will let the sun through.” One pacified man went off with good grace, And Patrick laughed at the other’s stern face, “You think me a blarney--hark, what I say, I tould the truth in an iligant way, Sure you know, and I know, and everyone, The fable of the philosopher’s stone, For stone, elixir, and Englishman’s wit Men have searched long, and found nivir a bit,” Then low to himself, “faith, that joke’s so clear That even a Scotchman may see it--_next year_!”

The Circuit

A pretty port I sailed from, So long, so long ago, As day down golden stairway Climbed to the world below. Ho, mariner! come tell me, Come tell me of a truth Know you a track will lead me back Unto the shores of youth?

A pretty port I sailed from, So long, so long ago, The blue sky stretching over, Blessed all the world below. I laughed good-bye so lightly, Nor recked I then, forsooth, That leagues of years and mist of tears Would hide the shores of youth.

Yet ever follows after, A breath of fragrance rare From hearts of flowers that blossom But in its tender air. And ever hear I, sweet and clear, The music of its birds-- The whistling flight of wings at night-- The songs too sweet for words.

And ever see its beauty, The smiling of its shore, And ever wait, and ever long To anchor there once more. Ho mariner! Ho mariner! Come tell me of a truth Know you a track will lead me back Unto the shores of youth?

A pretty port I sailed from, So long, so long ago, As day, down golden stairway, Passed to the world below. Sail on! Sail on! till light is done, Ho mariner, so wise! ’Tis far behind--so far behind-- This port I sailed from, lies.

Sail on! Sail on! you tell me, And in the twilight’s glow I’ll reach the port I sailed from, So long, so long ago. If this be so, then we may know That all who lose will find Each ship will come to love and home, And all it left behind.

Youth’s golden shore lies on before, So gaily sail we on, For the port we reach at even Is the port we leave at dawn. The harbor bar shines golden, O sweetness of the truth, We’ll cross it o’er, and come once more Unto the shores of youth.

Gethsemane

O Blessed Christ! O blessed Christ! The night is deep and long, And there is none to watch with me Of all the careless throng. O blessed Christ! O blessed Christ! The world lies fast asleep, Think Thou on dark Gethsemane And count the tears I weep.

My Friend